Morse and Wilde
by TheNefelibata
Summary: DC Wilde is everything that Morse hates in a man: charming, clever and the son of a rich Mason. However, when Nathan becomes involved in a dramatic murder case and lines between past and present begin to bleed, Morse finds he must take Nathan under his wing if he is to ever solve the case. Set mid-season 3-ish. Some depictions of violence, but mainly just angst.


**All characters and settings belong to ITV and the Endeavour production studio- except for Nathan Wilde, who is entirely a figment of my own imagination!**

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'Over here! ' The cry came from around the corner of the High Street. The voice was masculine, but sounded deeply breathless and exerted. Thursday redoubled his pace, but was easily outstripped by Morse who rounded the corner. Thursday followed, silencing the complaints from his muscles and almost ran straight into his bagman. Morse had his back turned and shoulders hunched- a sure-fire sign to Thursday that this wasn't a pleasant situation.

Blood. A great pool of it seemed to spread endlessly from a body on the middle of the pavement. Thursday knew from experience that, though it looked bad, there wasn't that much blood actually lost, but he still felt his breath catch and his heart lurch sickeningly. The scent invaded the street, turning his stomach. For a brief second, he was tempted to turn his back and bury his nose like Morse. However, he knew that the lad pumping the man's chest more than needed his help. He approached quickly, meaning to speak, bit the boy did first.

'Police! Stay back!' he cried, through shuddering gasps for breath. Thursday looked at the boy. Quite tall, skinny and dressed quite well in an expensive suit that looked well-worn, like it was his only good one. He'd never seen this lad around before. New bobby? Not that he knew of.

'Where's your ID, lad?' he asked rapidly, ignoring the warning. The boy looked up, exasperation clear on his face.

'I hardly think this is the time, sir,' he said, much more quietly, before taking in a huge breath and inflating the man's chest. He leant closer and checked, then sat back, apparently satisfied. 'I've restarted his heart. Can I trouble you to go and flag down the ambulance, sir?' True to form, Thursday could hear the ringing bell of the ambulance in a nearby street. Thursday held the young man's eye briefly, before turning on his heel. No need to explain rank at this moment. He smiled a little as he waved at the approaching medics. Fresh blood. That, at Cowley, was never a bad thing. Things had almost ground to a halt since Morse had arrived.

'Oh, my lord, no, sir, stay with me!' the cry was horribly shrill and loud. Thursday turned quickly. The young man had restarted compressions on the man's chest. His tie was half-tied around a hefty wound in the man's stomach. It seemed that the boy had tried to put pressure on the wound. Thursday skidded back through the blood, throwing his coat at Morse, even whom had approached. He crouched and held the knot closed as the boy counted endlessly through his teeth. The man's face was slowly turning grey and Thursday could feel the heat of the man's body draining into his fingers. He looked up, for a second, to the young policeman's face. His eyes were screwed up and his teeth were clenched. Thursday knew the symptoms well. He was exhausted, but would not admit it.

Before Thursday could move, someone else's hands were there. Long fingers and a navy suit jacket gently pulling at the young man.

'No. No! Get off me, I've got to keep his heart going!' he yelled. He writhed and, with strength that Thursday didn't expect, pulled from Morse's grip. He started again, his breaths more and more noticeably loud. Thursday let the tie go and raised himself from the ground. Morse looked at him and he nodded. Between them, they pulled the man off the body. The approaching uniform police moved in and, within a minute, the body was obscured.

The young man stood against the wall. Thursday and Morse didn't approach. If he didn't want them to see him, Thursday wasn't going to look. He was shaking, certainly, but it didn't look like tears. His brown hair fell over his forehead and was slightly too long and oddly straight, so it obscured his eyes. He had defined cheekbones and a pronounced jaw that fell into an overly long neck. He resembled a giraffe and he couldn't have been over twenty-three or twenty-four.

It seemed like he finally collected himself and he turned around. Thursday had to battle in himself not to just pull the lad into a pub and give him a drink. Then, he reminded himself, no pub in their right mind would take a bloke covered from the waist up in blood.

'Sir,' said Morse, in his usual tone, but Thursday could hear the discomfit. 'This is Detective Constable Nathan Wilde.' The boy looked up. He seemed as shocked as Thursday that Morse knew his name. 'DC Wilde, this is Detective Inspector Thursday.'

The remaining blood in the boy's face seemed to drain out as Thursday looked at him. He seemed to be playing through their encounter in his head. He swallowed.

'Sir, I'm sorry, I didn't kn-'

'No harm done,' Thursday muttered gruffly. No need for the boy to apologise. He had done a good job and treated Thursday just as he should have done.

'DC Wilde is on rotation, sir,' Morse said, after a brief pause. 'I was trying to talk to you about it earlier. Someone from County wanted him to have some bagman experience. Get some knowledge of how the city force operates. I believe your name was mentioned.' Thursday grunted.

'Where does that leave you then, Morse?' he said. If the truth be told, if that man had been stabbed, and that was what he expected, he wanted Morse with him and not some fresh-faced lad barely out of Hendon. It didn't do to drag out murder investigations, breaking a new man in. Even if he was someone with his wits about him, like this Wilde character.

'Oh, I'm not going anywhere, sir. Mr Bright wanted me to show DC Wilde the ropes,' Morse explained cheerfully.

The two men looked back at Wilde for the first time in a minute. He looked as though he had barely been following the conversation. He had peeled his suit jacket off and was staring at the blood stains on as it drooped from his hand. He went to brush his hair out of his face, more from habit than anything else, but seemed to stop dead as he noticed the red on his hands. Thursday sighed and looked at Morse. Then looked again. There wasn't often a time when Thursday saw emotions other than thought cross his bagman's face, but looking now, there was an expression of deepest, deepest sympathy.

'Alright, Wilde,' Thursday rumbled, knowing it was his most approachable tone for the men under him. 'Morse here's going to take you to digs and get you cleaned up, that alright?' The constable looked up. He nodded. 'You got anything else. A bag, sort of thing?'

'Yes, sir,' he said, his voice hoarse. Thursday looked where Wilde was pointing and saw a bag laying next to the curb. He was certain that it was now police evidence in a murder enquiry. Indeed, Thursday was sure the boy knew that too.

'I'll drop it round. Take the car, Morse. No need to come back to the station.' As Wilde wandered towards the corner, looking aimless, Thursday collared Morse. 'Don't let him come in today. Stay with him if need be, but I don't want him coming in. Things could get difficult and he looks fair knackered as it is.'

'But, sir-'

'You heard me, Morse. Now get after him.'

Thursday only realised, after the pair of awkward men had rounded the corner to the Jag, that he had put the newest member of his team under the care of his most vulnerable. Sometimes, said a voice in Thursday's head, not dissimilar to Win's now he thought of it, he did have a tendency to make a lot of problems for himself.

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 **This story has been in my mind for a while to it's great to get it down!**

 **Please leave a review because I love writing for other's enjoyment! Thanks,**

 **-TheNefelibata**


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